


Shifting Ink

by distantattraction



Series: Shifting Ink [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantattraction/pseuds/distantattraction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ink flows freely across his skin; it has done so from the day he was born. He’s long since passed the age where anyone bothers trying to explain it. Grantaire is the man with words built into his flesh, changing with each passing day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Mystery Long Unsolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For as long as he can remember, the things people say about Grantaire have found their way onto his skin in ink. It's not something he controls, but he's come to accept it, even when the words are less than complimentary.

Ink flows freely across his skin; it has done so from the day he was born. He's long since passed the age where anyone bothers trying to explain it. Grantaire is the man with words built into his flesh, changing with each passing day. They appear whenever someone speaks of him, and they fade only when they cease to be believed by the speaker. But, much to the chagrin of many who know him, Grantaire is not the type of person to change, so most of the remarks that make their way into his skin stay there.

 _Worthless_ has been inscribed at his right shoulder for as long as he can remember, in a black deeper than the night. That was his father. _Abomination_ encircles his left wrist in the same script. It was one of the last things his father ever said to him, back in the days when he still spoke to his son. Grantaire couldn't have been older than seven. Even when he still lived at home, Grantaire did not see much of his father. The man thought him a disappointment in every way possible, and these days, Grantaire takes great pleasure in proving him right. He thinks he might paint a self-portrait, show his parents the words that cover his skin now.

 _Friend_ is most common. It peppers his arms, his stomach, his legs. The word comes in eight colors, and the letters look as if they were written by eight different hands. Marius is purple, vibrant and noble, but quietly so. Joly is a yellow as bright as the sun, Bousset a burnt orange. Combeferre is the blue of seawater, deep and calm. Feuilly is white, tinged with red. He smiles at that; they are the colors of Poland, and Feuilly said he wishes it were as easy to embed those colors in his own skin as it is Grantaire's. Bahorel is a deep, reddish purple, somewhere between a good wine and a healing bruise. When Grantaire showed him, Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder and said he would have to talk about Grantaire more, as the color suits them both quite well. Now he bears the words _a good drinker, and an even better man to fight alongside_ on his upper left arm. Grantaire hopes Bahorel will never stop believing that; he wears it like a badge.

The warm, rich brown of Courfeyrac is second in quantity only to Jehan's sky blue. Grantaire has never admitted it to Jehan himself, but the poet makes him feel like a summer day. He thinks that Prouvaire makes an effort to speak well of him, being aware of his condition, but he also knows that Jehan would not lie simply to make him feel better. The poetic phrases that coat his chest and creep over his hands--beautiful compliments and earnest praise; even the worst things about him sound like gold when they fall from Jehan's lips--they are words Grantaire would never once think to apply to himself, but which come effortlessly to Jehan. The clear blue pushes aside some of his father's black, but it hasn't yet washed away Enjolras' words.

Enjolras is the purest red Grantaire has ever seen. Some days he wishes he could pry the pigment out of his skin and paint with it. He would look on Enjolras' words with much more fondness if they didn't all carry the weight of his disappointment. Grantaire is perfectly aware of how little he does for the revolution Les Amis de l'ABC seem to so crave--and why would he be any other way? Their cause means nothing to him; he attends meetings for the people themselves, not to hear anything they have to say about the matter. But even if he had not his own cognizance, he would have Enjolras' words--simultaneously effortless and incredibly precise--to remind him. _Incapable, faithless, an obstinate cynic_ : these all colored his torso. He remembers the burn of _worthless_ climbing up his spine as the word left Enjolras' mouth. It was spoken in haste and frustration, but he could not and would not take it back. Even after all this time, Enjolras still forgets that his words leave marks on Grantaire's skin.

 _Talented_ curves around his ankle, hidden under his boots. That one has been there since the day he apprenticed himself to Gros. These days the artist prefers to call him slow, which Grantaire can't argue with given his penchant for missing assignment deadlines. But the ink across his ankle hasn't faded, which means Gros hasn't stopped believing it. Grantaire keeps the word covered, a secret for himself.

 _Impossible_ lines one of his ribs. It had been an insult coming from the sharp tongue of a beautiful woman, but he does not let that affect him. He wears it as a mark of mystery, for what is a man made of shifting ink if not impossible?

For many people--perhaps most, though he cannot be sure--he thinks this strange affliction of his would be a punishment. Perhaps it is supposed to be for him. There are certainly enough unkind words scrawled across his flesh for that. But he simply takes the hits as they come, so to speak. Whenever he feels a new word or phrase inserting itself into an empty space--Enjolras' always feel like fire, but for the rest there is simply a prickling sensation as a phantom needle presses into him--he simply makes a note of the location and reads the words once he returns home. He keeps a second mirror to read what is written on his back.

Even the insults, as permanent as they are, cannot truly touch him. Grantaire cannot count how many times _drunk_ has been etched into him, has lost track of the number of comments made about his looks, but they all pale in comparison to the expanse of blue that is Jehan naming him _a daring drinker of dreams_ and Courfeyrac's calling him _a valued friend_ curling down his leg like mahogany roots.

It is perhaps fortunate that Grantaire's friends do think as well of him as they do, because Grantaire has no opinion of himself. He knows that his looks are bad, his heart is good, his hands are skilled when he wants them to be; this is all that matters. To Grantaire, most of the words that cover his skin are nothing more than decoration. But the affection of his friends is warming.


	2. Words That Warm and Words That Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jehan comforts and Enjolras cuts.

Speaking with Jehan is as comforting as having a bottle of good wine, but it carries the added benefit of having the verses of Jean Prouvaire creep down his skin like ivy.

Conversations with Jehan have a way of being about nothing and about everything all at once. He describes flower petals in glorious detail, gives colors depth in the way that no painter can--and Grantaire knows this because he has studied art long enough to be sure that there is no paint in the world that will ever make him _feel_ violet they way Jehan can speak it.

He asks Grantaire to tell him about the things that matter to him (of which there are few) or the things around them, from people (of which there are some) to bottles (of which there are many). Grantaire once asked why a poet would want so often to hear the words of a drunk, and Jehan called him an _inspiration._ Grantaire had flushed as the word grew under his collarbone, just above his heart. Jehan just smiled kindly at him and requested a description of the view from Grantaire's bedroom window.

Today Jehan tells him of a moth Combeferre captured--"It's always moths with that one, isn't it?"--as they share a bottle of wine. They have an hour to waste before Enjolras calls the next meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC to order, and as neither of them are currently working on any projects, they prefer to spend their free time in pleasant conversation. Before long, however, the other members of the organization fill the room, and Enjolras stands before them, ready to speak.

"We have not yet heard our call to action, and I do not know when it will come," he says, and though his voice is not loud, it has all the power of a shout. "Here, I know the fire of revolution still burns strongly, but I worry that our allies are losing faith. We must stay ready. The people of Paris hunger for change, but it can grow easy to ignore such an appetite if it goes unfed too long. Tonight, we speak with our friends and countrymen and we feed that fire. We remind them of what it is we will stand together to achieve. Combeferre, you will go to Picpus..."

The students file out of the café with promises of success as Enjolras gives them their assignments. In a few moments, only Enjolras, Bousset, and Grantaire are left in the Musain. Enjolras looks up from his list with a frown. "Where is Joly? He was to attend to the medical school."

"Joly is home," Bousset says. "He is sick."

"Joly always believes he is dying and is never ill," Enjolras says. "Rouse him so that he might rouse the hearts of his classmates. We prepare ourselves for _battle_ \--more men with medical knowledge can be nothing but helpful."

"You and I both know that if he believes whatever he has caught to be fatal, he is not leaving his bed for days. Talk to his classmates yourself. You've met them before, have you not?"

Enjolras' lip curls. "I have Lamarque and his men to consult with. It is a meeting I cannot reschedule."

"Then I will go," Bousset offers, but Enjolras shakes his head.

"You are needed at the courts. There is a group of law students there tonight I know will be of use to our cause if they are made aware of it."

"Then I am afraid tonight you are as unlucky as I am," Bousset replies. He speaks with a smile that Enjolras does not return.

"Go to the courts," he says. "I will figure something out."

"I could go," another voice offers as Bousset's footsteps fade down the street. Grantaire stands, volunteering for the first time Enjolras can remember.

"You? You have never set foot in Joly's school. His classmates are strangers to you."

"That is true. But Joly is not, and friends of his will make good acquaintances of mine."

"You do not believe in our cause. I do not even know if you _listen_ when you come to these meetings. I only ever see you drink."

Grantaire looks coolly at Enjolras when he speaks his next words. "'The people of Paris will rise to fight by our sides because we fight for what is right. We fight for the freedom of man. I do not say we fight for _them_ because we fight for _us_ ; there is no difference between you, or I, or the baker, or the butcher, or the barkeep. We are all men, and we are all exploited. For now. Only for now.'"

Enjolras blinks. He'd quoted the speech Enjolras had given at their last meeting, and he is fairly sure that Grantaire memorized the words verbatim. But he is not willing to send an unreliable messenger on such an important task. "So you know the words. It matters not if you do not feel them."

"Would you like me to write a speech of my own to present to them, Enjolras?" Grantaire asks. "I guarantee it would not have half the effect of your words. They carry power on their own. I may not have your fire, but I can bear a torch well enough, I think."

"You want me to send you to strangers to speak someone else's words to them, words in which you have no faith--how are you to inspire courage in another if you cannot even fashion it in your own heart?"

"I do not know. But I would try."

"Grantaire, you are _useless._ "

And there it is again, the burn of Enjolras' words inscribing themselves on his skin. He watches Enjolras' eyes widen, his mouth opening slightly--whether to speak or merely in surprise, Grantaire does not know--but he knows that Enjolras is watching the word form above his cravat. The shade of red is all wrong--Enjolras is brighter than crimson--but Grantaire suspects it looks as though his throat has been slit.

He looks Enjolras dead in the eye when the other man's gaze finally breaks away from the letters on his neck. This time, this one time, Grantaire will not back down. "Useless I may be," he hisses, and the warmth has not yet faded from this new brand, "but still I am _here._ "

And this time it is Enjolras who looks away. Grantaire doubts shame will ever mar that face, but he sees guilt in Enjolras' eyes. He thinks he should feel some sense of triumph in making the marble man fold, even in a matter this small, but Grantaire simply feels empty.

"If you truly wish me to leave, then I will. I would have thought that having a man to forward your revolution, however slightly--and even if that man is me--would be preferable to postponing this particular step of your plan. But perhaps the gravity of your designs rests too high above my head for me to understand."

He waits. He waits for Enjolras to contradict him, to scold him again, to say anything at all. (But he does not expect an apology. He would never be so foolish as to hope for that.)

Enjolras says nothing at all. Grantaire gives up on waiting.

He is back home in a matter of minutes, doesn't even know which bottle is in his hand.

He pours its contents down his throat anyway. It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it's alcohol.

It is not until the next afternoon that Grantaire leaves his apartment, wine in hand to stave off a hangover. He walks to Jehan's residence, knocks on the door, and leans against the wall of the entrance, taking a long swig from the bottle as he waits.

Prouvaire opens the door with a smile--that never changes, whether he expects ten guests or none--but the smile fades when he sees Grantaire's face. Frowning, his eyes fall upon the word newly inscribed on his throat. "Oh, _Grantaire,_ " Jehan says, stepping back to let him inside.

Grantaire merely shakes his head as he crosses the threshold. He doesn't yet know what to say.

"Enjolras and I are going to have words."

"Don't bother. It isn't worth your time. And we all know he doesn't mean it, not truly. He's just..." Grantaire waves a hand vaguely as he sits at Jehan's table.

"Abrasive. And a fool." Jehan says, running his hands through his hair in aggravation. "I should punch him at the start of the next meeting. I'm sure it's been quite a long time since anyone struck him across the face. We might need to fill some sort of quota."

Grantaire laughs. "As much as I would love to see that, it really isn't worth it."

"But I should do it anyway. It's not as though he would retaliate." Jehan sits down with a sigh, taking a sip of wine. "He should _know better_ by now."

Jehan's face softens when he recognizes the weight of melancholy in his friend's silence. He takes Grantaire's hands in his own across the table and begins to speak.

"You, my friend, are an excellent specimen of humanity. You are a far better man than most give you credit for. You are a better man than even you yourself realize. You are an extraordinarily talented artist, and a divine dancer if what you've taught me is anything to go by. Perhaps you are a challenge, but aren't we all? Grantaire, I am overjoyed to have the privilege of calling you my friend. The stars shine in your eyes. You are brilliant."

As one, they look down at Grantaire's hands. Jehan's fingers, too, are stained with ink, though his comes from his pen. Grantaire's blossom with blue, _brilliant_ curling around his knuckles. Jehan squeezes his hands, smiling when Grantaire returns the gesture.

"Let me tell you about the grove I saw in my dreams last night," Jehan says, and Grantaire smiles as well.


	3. Tell Me What You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude. In which Jehan takes it upon himself to do something for Grantaire.

Grantaire shifts slightly in his seat. Jehan's home is usually more comfortable than his own--it might be the flowers Jehan has on every surface--but this feels odd. He sits in a backwards chair in Jehan's front room, his chin resting on the arms he has crossed on the back of the chair. His shirt and waistcoat lie neatly folded (the poet's work; he'd scoffed when Grantaire tossed them down carelessly) on the table, but it's not his nakedness that discomforts him. Jehan has asked to see his tattoos on many occasions, and Grantaire has yet to turn him down. What has Grantaire so off-balance is what Jehan is asking him to do.

Jehan sighs from his place at Grantaire's back, where he stands with a paintbrush held easily between his fingers. "Tell me, Grantaire," he says. After a few more moments' silence, he speaks again. Grantaire can almost feel his exasperation thrumming through the room. "Come now, Grantaire, you cannot expect me to believe you have never thought about what it would be to have your own words on your skin, for once."

He has thought about it. Once. A long time ago. He'd thought about mixing paints to match his skin and covering everything that was already there. He'd thought about painting himself green to match the grass of a field and vanishing into it. He'd thought about painting himself the blue of the sea and drowning in it.

He doesn't dwell on those days anymore.

Today, when Jehan had asked him to bring his paints with him when he came for lunch, Grantaire had done so without a second thought. He assumed Jehan wanted one of his poems illustrated. It's work that Grantaire is happy to do. But he'd set down his kit, and Jehan had immediately dived into it, asking what Grantaire's favorite color is.

Now he stands with a brush dipped in green, poised to write whatever it is Grantaire will say next. And Grantaire has no idea what that word should be.

"Just tell me," Jehan says, drumming the fingers of his free hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "And don't give me any of that _drunk_ or _cynic_ nonsense. Those aren't important, and I want you to tell me one that matters."

There is another pause. He knows it doesn't last long, but the seconds seem to stretch into eternities. In the end, though, the word comes to him as easy as breathing.

"Good."

_Good._

Jehan nods behind him, and the brush meets his skin as the poet carefully paints letters across the back of his shoulders. "Good. A very wise choice."


	4. The Road to Freedom Is Paved in Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a rally goes poorly and there is a fight.

Change is rarely quiet and never comes without cost. Les Amis de l'ABC are aware of this. It is one of the reasons Joly is such a key member of the group, why Bahorel's aggression is sometimes more of an asset than a hindrance, why it is good that for all Jehan's timidity he does not stand down when matters come to blows.

Today is one of the days that they prove with their bodies that they are unafraid to fight for their revolution. The people were called together to stand outside General Lamarque's home, where they stand and listen to Enjolras speak while the others hand out pamphlets. This is where their greatest strengths lie, Grantaire knows. When the people hear Enjolras speak, they listen. They _believe._ Grantaire knows better than to think that all of Enjolras' plans will come to fruition, but it does not stop him admiring the man's skill at rallying a crowd.

The cries of _Vive la France!_ ring through the streets. This, he assumes, is what calls the police to them. In an instant, the people at the back of the crowd are gone. The poor of Paris know how to disappear.

Enjolras has never been poor, and even if he were ever inclined to hide, Grantaire doubts he would be capable of it.

The greater part of Enjolras' audience are able to escape without incidence. Enjolras, however, stands atop their makeshift stage, backed against a wall, with armed officers blocking every potential exit. Grantaire, meanwhile, moves against the flow of the crowd. He always watches Enjolras' speeches from a distance, never helps to hand out fliers, but when he recognizes the trademark rhythm of marching footsteps, he knows it's time to stand with his friends. He sees pamphlets being stored in pockets before the students raise their fists, Bahorel doing so with a grin. He's always itching for a fight.

And today, he will certainly get one.

It's not the first time the group has had an altercation with the police, and they all know it will not be the last. For a moment, the two sides stand facing each other. It's an offer that has been given voice in the past, though now there is only silence: Reprieve in exchange for submission. Enjolras lifts his chin, always proud, never surrendering. He raises a single disdainful brow at the officer in charge, and they all hear the question there.

_Well?_

And with that, it begins. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire sees Bahorel launch himself across the street, tackling one of the officers almost before anyone else has moved. The characteristic grunts of a fight replace the chants in echoing between the houses, but they can hear Bahorel's laughter above it all.

Grantaire's experience with boxing helps him avoid most of the blows directed at him, but he thanks his drunken brawls for teaching him how to take a hit and ignore it in favor of swinging back. He hears one of the officers mutter _scum_ under his breath, and Grantaire sets his jaw and puts extra force into his next punch. It connects with the man's cheek, and he falls. Grantaire turns his attention to his next adversary, ignoring the prickling at his side. He's had worse insults than that inked into him, but he wishes he could knock the officer down a second time.

For a time, it looks as though the students will be able to fend off their assailants and break free of the square-turned-fighting-ring long enough to disappear. But when Grantaire looks up and sees not one but _two_ more patrols heading their way, he knows they aren't going to make it out of here with only bruises to show for it.

Almost on cue, a foot connects with the back of his knee, sending him crashing down. He has just enough of his reflexes about him to throw a hand out, preventing his face smashing into the cobblestones, but he doesn't react quickly enough to avoid the second kick, which connects solidly with his ribcage.

 _There wasn't a snap,_ Grantaire reassures himself as he is sent tumbling aside, arms over his face to shield it as he rolls. It'll bruise horribly, but nothing is broken. Grantaire looks to his right as he lifts himself onto his arms. The officer who kicked him is wearing a smirk that positively _stinks_ of self-satisfaction, and Grantaire can't wait to knock it off him.

That is, until he looks to his left and sees two men grabbing hold of each of Jehan's arms, holding him down so that a third can strike him without retaliation.

In an instant, Grantaire is on his feet and racing toward them. He doesn't even stop to think, he just focuses in on the attacking officer and _dives,_ arms wrapping around the man's side so that Grantaire takes him along when he crashes to the ground. The other two men are shocked enough that their grip on Jehan's arms slacken, which is all he needs to shove one away from him and punch the other square in the face. Now Grantaire can hear a crunch. Jehan's fist comes away bloodied, and the officer sinks to his knees, clutching his broken nose.

"We're outnumbered," Jehan says, breathless, and Grantaire nods.

"It's time to leave."

They move quickly, doing their best to duck around the policemen, but it's impossible to avoid them all. For every one of the students, there are four officers, and not even Bahorel can even out those odds.

Someone knocks Jehan down, and as Grantaire moves to help him up, someone else grabs him by the throat. He splutters, trying to breathe, trying to get the proper force into his limbs to throw him off, but he can't quite manage it. Lights flicker in his vision, and Grantaire knows things have gotten dangerous for him.

And then a rock comes flying through the air, striking the officer. He drops Grantaire, who rubs his throat as blissful air fills his lungs once more. The officer scans the street for the culprit, scowling.

"Hey, you lot!" a familiar voice cries out. "I don't think this is your part of town."

Grantaire doubts there is a single man in the square who doesn't follow the source of the words up to the roofs of the surrounding houses, where Gavroche and his street urchins stand, all with rocks in their hands.

The children are _incredibly_ accurate with their throws. At a nod from Gavroche, the air is full of flying stones, and yet not one strikes any of the students. As quickly as they can, Grantaire and Jehan maneuver their way toward Enjolras and Combeferre, who wave their allies toward an empty pathway. Joly supports a limping Bousset, while Feuilly grits his teeth as he runs, his shoulder clearly dislocated. Blood drips from Courfeyrac, and he winces with every step he takes.

They do not go to the Musain to recuperate. Enjolras leads them straight to Joly's home, where he immediately takes out a needle and thread, passing bandages to Enjolras. Combeferre leans over Feuilly, reassuring him that his arm will be fine, but getting it back into its socket will be painful.

Bahorel grins, revealing a dark space where this morning he had had a tooth. "You know, I kind of wish there had been more of them. I love a challenge."

He means to lighten the mood, and it does the job for some. But Enjolras' smiles have always been rare. "We need quiet," he says, looking around. "If you are unhurt--or rather, if you are not so injured that you cannot walk--leave us. We will meet at the Corinthe at noon."

Grantaire leaves. He knows that he will be fine, that his bruises will fade in a few weeks' time. But sleep will come much more easily to him after a drink.


	5. False Badge of Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire awakens with the marks of the previous day’s fight on him, one of them very much unexpected. He proceeds to argue with Enjolras, who truly hears him for the first time.

The first reminder of the previous day's events comes when Grantaire attempts to stretch with a yawn and immediately stops, a hand going to his ribs. He sleeps shirtless, so the purpling bruise on his chest is clearly visible. He winces as he stands and heads over to his washroom to clean himself up for the day. It's when he reaches for the water that he notices something else new and freezes.

 _Brave_  spans his right forearm in a familiar red script. Perhaps it is only his imagination, but the letters seem rounder than most that Enjolras has left on him. This word feels more open than the tight lines of his criticisms.

Grantaire scowls and tugs a shirt on, covering the mark before getting ready to leave. Something about it doesn't feel right, and that frustrates him. He hasn't felt this way since he was a child accepting the insults of his father, and this isn't even a discourtesy. But it feels _wrong_ , and suddenly Grantaire is uncomfortable in his own skin.

It's still early--in fact, it's some sort of miracle that he's awake at this hour at all--so he heads for Enjolras' apartment instead of the Corinthe. He isn't exactly welcome there, but they've held meetings at the place before, so he knows where it is.

Enjolras has never been one for tact, so he doesn't bother hiding his surprise when he answers the knock at his door and sees Grantaire. But he extends an invitation inside, as well as an offer for coffee that goes ignored. Enjolras pours himself a cup instead. He's probably the worst of the group at reading other people's emotions, especially Grantaire's, but even he can feel the tension in the air. He hears a rustle of fabric as he stirs milk into his drink.

"When did you say this?"

Enjolras turns to find Grantaire staring at him, a finger pointing to a forearm exposed by a rolled-up sleeve.

Enjolras pauses for a moment--he hadn't expected something that wasn't spoken to the man directly to appear on his skin--before responding. "Last night, while Joly was stitching wounds."

"And are you aware it isn't true?"

Enjolras frowns, and Grantaire assumes this is what is looks like when God damns a soul. "Excuse me?"

"I don't much like to have lies embedded in my flesh, Enjolras. No matter whose lies they are."

"It's no lie."

"Nor is it a truth," Grantaire insists. "I am not brave by any definition of the word."

"You fought with us yesterday. You were hurt--you could have been killed if we hadn't had help. You gave your body to the fight. That is brave."

Grantaire barks out a laugh, the sound much harsher than Enjolras is used to. He suspects that Grantaire never laughs that way when he speaks with anyone else. "That was not bravery, fearless leader, that was foolishness. But, naturally, _you_ wouldn't be able to tell the difference." The stress on "you" is slight, just enough to be an accusation.

"It takes courage to stand for what is right. It takes courage to fight for freedom, to fight for the people, to fight at all. It takes courage to decide not to simply allow the hand of some distant king to dictate your actions. It takes cour--"

"What it _takes_ ," Grantaire interrupts, "is an inability to tear myself away from a group of men who will die for the smallest chance at 'making a difference for the people.' Maybe bravery factors in for you and the others, Enjolras, but I can assure you that there is none of it in me."

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a moment. He needs a drink, and it doesn't matter what hour it is, he is far too sober to be having this conversation. "Listen," he says, turning his back on Enjolras and heading for the door, "I'm sure you have notes to look over and daring, life-changing plans to make."

"Grantaire, wait--"

It's the first command from Enjolras that Grantaire ever ignores.

As such, Enjolras does not expect to see Grantaire at the Corinthe for the meeting, but it seems as if Grantaire is simply full of surprises today. When Enjolras walks in, Grantaire is seated at a table in the back corner, a bottle resting on its surface. There are no chairs at the table but his own, and Jehan sits at the next table over. Judging from the worried looks Prouvaire keeps sending Grantaire, neither of these are choices the poet approves of. Jehan signals to Courfeyrac when he enters, and the two converse in low voices as they await the start of the meeting. Jehan's anxiety is all over his face.

Enjolras turns his thoughts to the task at hand. He has a group of revolutionaries to lead, after all. Uncharacteristically, he doesn't stay focused for long, because he _had_ looked over his notes before coming here, and now he wonders if that was the wrong thing to do.

But he has a speech to give and men to inspire. He has a job to do, and worrying about Grantaire has never been a part of it.

_Should it be?_

He steps forward, and the chatter dies down. He looks around the room, aware of Jehan's continuing glances at Grantaire and the alarming rate at which Grantaire is emptying his bottle--it's fast, even for him--and speaks.

"What we need most now," he says, locking eyes with Combeferre so he will not look back at the corner table, "is a solid plan. We have allies, we have men who will fight with us. We just need a location, a solid course of action. Then something, _something_ to call the people to arms. We will be able to stand strong together, numbers far too high to ignore--"

"That's likely."

Grantaire's comment is scathing. It's not as if Grantaire has never made criticisms of Enjolras' idea--indeed, that seems to be all he ever does during meetings besides drink--but this time, there is none of his usual lightheartedness. The entire room freezes. Jehan, Enjolras thinks, has stopped breathing, and Enjolras himself has completely forgotten where his thought was supposed to go.

He moves on to the next point in his notes, starting again as if there had been no interruption. "Lamarque has made his stance clear, but no other politicians are bold enough to extricate themselves from the hold of the government. The king who is supposed to guide his people to greatness instead lets us suffer. The power to truly create change goes to waste on this pathetic excuse for a leader--"

"Who has an army to take care of problems like little old us."

"--who will not respect the rights and needs of the people. Still we sit in silence, when what we must do is make ourselves _heard_."

"Now, perhaps I'm mistaken, but isn't being heard what got Feuilly's shoulder dislocated yesterday?"

Enjolras ignores his comments. With a twinge of guilt, he realizes for the first time that he's well-acquainted with this practice. But now he cannot ignore Grantaire.

Enjolras has always been a talented orator. He doesn't miss a word as he resumes speaking, though he watches as first Courfeyrac and then Jehan attempt to speak to Grantaire. He brushes them both off and drinks as they sit back down, clearly at a loss for what to do. Grantaire tilts his head back, the bottle vertical in his hand, and when he sets it down, the glass thuds hollowly against the table. A flush reddens his cheeks, but he's steady on his feet when he stands, raising his hands in a grand gesture.

"Ah, I see we're going with the 'united we stand' approach today. I should tell you, Enjolras, that as much as your speeches inspire--and inspire they do, rest assured--you will never create courage where there is none. The people will not fight with you because they are afraid, because they are not so desperate yet as to risk their lives for betterment, because even you cannot fundamentally change a person. No man in his right mind would be persuaded to give his life for a doomed cause without believing it first in his own heart. _I_ am the only man I know foolish enough to make that mistake." His hands drop, one fist striking the table. He drums a finger against its wooden surface for a moment, the way he always does when he is making a decision, and without another word he is heading for the door.

Enjolras doesn't hesitate before following him out, giving the others nothing more than a cursory "give me a few minutes" as he goes.

Grantaire is already halfway down the street when Enjolras calls his name. He stops, but from the way he pauses before turning to face him, it's a decision he questions.

"What the hell was all of that?" Enjolras asks, and Grantaire's lip curls in something that is half a scowl, half a smile.

"I should have known you'd start with an invective."

"And why shouldn't I? All of today you've been nothing but belligerent, rejecting everything I say even when it favors you."

"I cannot imagine what that must feel like," Grantaire says, his voice completely flat.

"You will not have this conversation with Jehan or Courfeyrac," Enjolras insists, "so now you must have it with me. What is it that I have done? In what way have I wronged you by deeming you brave?"

It takes Grantaire a minute to respond, during which time his jaw tenses. "Enjolras, I have never needed or wanted your pity, and I cannot imagine anything else that would inspire you to say such a thing as this, especially given the rest of the marks you've left on me." Enjolras winces. It's a low blow and they both know it, but Grantaire does not have it in him to care right now. For the first time in a long time, he is well and truly _angry._

"I do not understand the problem. You seem to believe it to be a lie, but I can assure you that there was no dishonesty there when I spoke it, nor has my opinion changed now."

Grantaire takes a deep breath that leaves his lungs in a huff and does nothing to calm him down. "You... You say these things you do not mean and do not take back, and I have accepted that. I have grown accustomed to it. You cannot simply take my expectations and turn them on their head, Enjolras."

"Why? Why is it such a bad thing? How is this not exactly the type of change we--"

"I knew where I stood with you, Enjolras!" In an instant, his anger is gone. Exhaustion sinks into Grantaire's bones, and he knows it is time to make his exit, graceful or otherwise "I knew where I stood. I knew who you were and who I was to you, and now... Now what?" His arms lift briefly before falling again in defeat.

Enjolras says nothing. He looks as confused as Grantaire feels, and a part of him thinks, _Good._ See how unsure footing suits _him_ for once.

"Until you figure it out," Grantaire says, "don't speak of me aloud. I don't need that."

It's the second time today that he walks away from Enjolras, and it doesn't feel any better than the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for a lot of this chapter came from this post:  
> http://childrenxofxthexbarricade.tumblr.com/post/46807917890


	6. Inferno and Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire spends some time in solitude, but the outside world, as it is wont to do, finds its way onto his skin anyway.

When Grantaire returns home, he does not leave again for more than a full day. He passes the time first with drink, then with a brush and canvas. But none of the colors feel right in his hand until he settles on red, and whenever red is the main color of a composition, the subject is always the same. It doesn't matter how abstract it starts out--eventually the shapes resolve themselves into a jacket with a cockade pinned to its lapel, hands that clutch pamphlets, and a face framed by golden curls.

But Grantaire does not wish to look at Enjolras today.

He thinks about trying again, setting a new canvas on his easel and splattering paint across its surface in such a way that Enjolras' form cannot emerge from the spots, but he knows what these paintings look like. He knows that this would simply put images of his friends bleeding on the street  into his mind, and he's worried enough about that as it is.

He's made the mistake of choosing to hide himself away before refreshing his stores of the substances he thinks of fondly as sleep aids, though most would simply call them drugs. He lacks opium, he lacks hashish; he even lacks food, although he is used enough to that that it will not affect him tonight. He would go out and resupply himself, but Jehan knows all of his favorite shops and sources, and he does not doubt that the poet has eyes at each of them so he will be able to corner Grantaire.

Thus Grantaire determines to stay in his rooms, where he will perhaps go hungry, but at least he will have the comfort of solitude.

He knows that he has most of a bottle of absinthe tucked away, and with any luck, that will be enough to lull him into a sleep not cursed by dreams.

The next day is spent in much the same state of restlessness, although he does manage to make his way to a bakery to buy a loaf of bread for his dinner. He considers it a miracle that he does not see Jehan or Courfeyrac lying in wait for him and hopes that Enjolras and the others have matters important enough to keep their attention until Grantaire chooses to reemerge.

He drinks through the afternoon, moving from penciled sketches to charcoal drawings to paintings, filling the room with half-finished images of Enjolras. (He gives speeches, he leads, he fights, but in none of these does he smile; Grantaire is sure he must have seen the man happy at _some_ point, but he can neither recall such an occasion nor imagine a smile on those angelic features of his.)

The sun has set when his day, having lasted so long without incident, changes. it starts with a faint tingle, the feeling that tells him his name has just left someone's mouth. But it does not _stop._

He does not know with whom Enjolras speaks, but Grantaire knows that his name is coming up more often than an eager student's hand because he is delirious with heat. He thinks Enjolras' words must be giving him a genuine fever because if he didn't keep looking down at himself, he would think he'd already burst into flames. Grantaire can't even focus enough to find the words where they form because every time he looks at his skin he just sees red, feels _red_. He stumbles to the bathroom, tearing his clothes away from his body before filling the tub with cold water in an attempt to extinguish the fire, but it burns under his skin, beyond a barrier water cannot pass.

He screams into the water, eyes pressed tightly shut, knees tucked up to his chest, hands gripping his head. He does not even know if he burns with approval or condemnation.

The seconds pass like hours, and the minutes it takes for the burning to subside feel like days. When the fire fades, it takes all of his energy with it. His eyelids flutter, favoring closed more than open, and Grantaire does not stand despite knowing that he should. The water feels pleasantly cool against his still-warm skin; lids drooping, he thinks that he will stay here for just a few moments before collapsing into his bed.

When he awakes, it takes him a moment to figure out why he is shivering and a moment longer to figure out why he is wet. Once he does, he supposes he is lucky he did not drown himself as Enjolras so often suggests he is doing with drink. (This is a supposition only; he is no Bousset, but he doubts Fortune has ever properly smiled upon him unless she was trying to catch the eye of one of his friends and he merely happened to be in the same room.)

But thinking of Enjolras reminds him exactly why he risked a most dishonorable death the night before. Grantaire lifts himself out of the bathtub, grabs a cloth to dry himself off with, and goes to stand naked between his mirrors.

Sleep must still fill his eyes, because for a second he thinks he is covered in blisters, that something went wrong and Enjolras' words really did burn him. But the second passes, and Grantaire realizes that he is simply--miraculously--covered in red. Bahorel, Jehan, and Courfeyrac's words still sit proudly in their places, but red overwhelms almost everything else. The black _worthless_ that has covered Grantaire's shoulder his entire life is indecipherable, covered by bold red. It takes time to adjust to the sudden shift in the balance of colors that decorate his skin. Grantaire has never received this much attention from one person in his life, and if anyone had told him it would be _Enjolras_ who did it, he would have told them they'd had too much absinthe and that the rest of it would be better served by _his_ hand.

Yet here he is, completely sober, with Enjolras' words pressed across his skin. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst--he doesn't think he's done anything to offend Enjolras recently, but one can never be completely sure--leans in, and reads.

_Loyal._

_Unafraid._

_Stubborn._

_A man of a particular kind of faith._

_Honest._

_Outspoken, for better or for worse._

_Unfairly eloquent._

_Kind, caring, good, troublesome undeniably, but good._

He loses himself in the words. Grantaire doesn't know how long he stands in front of his mirror. He doesn't realize he's crying until a shiver runs up his spine and his breath catches in his throat. With a laugh, he dresses himself in Robespierre red-- _Enjolras_ red--and leaves for the Musain, his steps the lightest they've ever been.


	7. Whispered Confessions, Silent Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire’s relationship with Enjolras undergoes the kind of transformation he only ever dreamed of. Also in which Grantaire and Jehan go on a platonic date and talk about boys.

"You know they were not all kind words," he says without preamble. Enjolras turns, his lip twitching slightly upward at the sight of Grantaire.

"You requested honesty, and it would be dishonest of me to ignore the qualities I consider your flaws." He shrugs, a smile definitely playing about his mouth now. "But they are as much a part of you as anything else."

"Who were you speaking with?"

"Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and I were discussing the various tasks we were to assign everyone at the next meeting, but when I mentioned your name, Jehan refused to let me speak about anything else until I had told him what I think of you."

Grantaire shakes his head, grinning. "That is like him. I should buy him a bottle of wine. Perhaps a bouquet. He would like that."

"He would indeed."

There is a pause during which they both acknowledge the fact that the conversation has wandered away from the topic at hand, but it is easier to talk about Jehan than themselves. Still, Grantaire presses forward.

"Does this change anything?" he asks. "Now that I know you refuse to think as poorly of me as I was once assured, even when the evidence of my failures looks you in the eye--does it change anything?"

"In the way that you, despite believing in nothing I say, continue to tell me that you believe in me?" Enjolras answers. " _Liberté, égalité, fraternité_ \--it is an equal exchange. Exactly what we fight for. As for change... I would be remiss to deny that I am unused to thinking about you with depth, and that is a mistake I must make amends for. I have spoken many times in haste, and you have merely accepted the harm I inflicted on you. _That_ I would like to change."

"Are you asking forgiveness for your sins, my son?" Grantaire asks, speaking with deliberate formality.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, but without the disdain that normally accompanies the gesture. "If you wish to think of it as such."

"Then I would say that repentance is a long road with many steps. But perhaps we should start small." The eyebrow arches higher as Grantaire gives a deep bow, gesturing to a table. "Drink with me?"

Enjolras rolls his eyes but nods his head, and there is the smile Grantaire could not imagine the previous night. Grantaire's hand goes to the inside of his left arm, covering the place where _good_ rests in Enjolras' color under his sleeves.

 

True to promise, Grantaire has a bouquet of roses in a deep pink the florist assured him mean gratitude resting on his arm when he knocks on Jehan's door the next day.

"Grantaire!" Jehan says, stepping aside so his guest can enter. Grantaire passes him the flowers before doing so. Jehan beams as he smells them. "And what are these for?"

"A thank-you. Enjolras and I have had a proper talk that I'm told you orchestrated."

"I have been informed that I can be quite meddlesome," Jehan says lightly, sitting down across from Grantaire. He grabs a set of clippers and unwraps the bouquet, releasing the roses across the table. Grantaire watches with admiration as Jehan begins forming the blossoms into a flower crown. He has never quite grasped how Jehan can turn something so delicate into something wearable, but it hasn't stopped him from loving watching Jehan's hands at work. "Do you wish to talk here, or shall we go for a walk?" Jehan asks, his fingers deftly twisting stems.

"I've been inside for two days," Grantaire says. "I think it's time I reacquaint myself with the city. We could go and visit a café with better coffee than political talk, for once. Or we could go to the Barriere de la Cunette for lunch, you know how good their bouillabaisse is."

"Coffee sounds delightful," Jehan says as he puts the finishing touches on his flower crown and places it gently atop his head. "Do you know of a place overlooking the Seine? We can gaze upon the river and discuss poetry like true Romantics."

"I think I know the perfect spot," Grantaire says, standing.

Jehan picks up the last of the roses, and Grantaire expects him to pin it at his lapel, but instead the poet reaches up and tucks it behind Grantaire's ear. "Shall we go?"

They talk about nothing while they walk, the ephemeral fragrance of roses trailing behind them to mix with the more solid scents of the city. It is not until they sit at a table near a window--a perfect view of the Seine, just as requested--with steaming cups of coffee before them that Enjolras becomes the subject of conversation once more.

"So, does he know yet?"

"Know what?" Grantaire frowns, but Jehan just smiles as he sips his coffee.

"Then he doesn't know."

" _What_ are you talking about, Jehan?"

"It lifts the soul like a sparrow,  
takes the heart in frenzied flight.  
It gives you heat, it gives you light,  
It gives you freedom in your life."

"Was that a riddle or a poem?"

"A bit of both. As are you."

Jehan raises his cup in a toast as Grantaire feels a tingle at his left calf, the phantom needles at work again. _A riddle and a poem_ \--Grantaire cannot help but admire Jehan's choice in words when it comes to the ones that etch themselves into his skin. Jehan's blue always makes him feel elegant.

They spend a few moments in companionable silence before Grantaire speaks again, the sentence coming to him almost as an afterthought; he had never been very good at taking care of himself. "I do hope you will warn me the next time you force Enjolras to talk about me, though," he says.

"Why?"

"There's a heat that accompanies Enjolras' words. In the quantities he spoke last night, I thought I had burst into flames."

Jehan looks up, eyes wide in horror. "I'm so sorry! You never told me!"

Grantaire smiles gently so he knows it hadn't been an accusation. "I assumed it would never be an issue," he says with a shrug. "Don't worry about it. Call it a trial I am happy to have passed." The concern on Jehan's face doesn't shift, and Grantaire leans forward to take his hand. "Enjolras and I are...on good terms, and it was your doing. Besides, you didn't know. You have nothing to apologize for. Believe me, I will not hold it against you."

Jehan looks worried for a moment more before brightening. "And I didn't even need to strike him," he says. "Your marble lover remains undamaged."

"He is no lover of mine. Honestly, I have no idea what we are. We weren't exactly friends before, you know. I feel as though we have skipped a few of the usual steps."

"Give it time, _mio caro_. You will see."

Jehan's smile is much more knowing than Grantaire thinks it has a right to be.

 

Jehan is many things, and in the coming weeks, Grantaire must admit that perceptive is definitely one of them. He and Enjolras are still adjusting to being friendly towards each other, but it's a process that no one can deny. Grantaire still interrupts every one of Enjolras' speeches--he doubts he would give that up for the world--but he's met more often with a smile than the scathing looks he's used to, and the sighs have a distinct air of fondness about them.

It isn't long before Enjolras is laying praise on him with ease--little things: small compliments on the sketches Grantaire produces during meetings, casual affection that twines around the poetry Jehan has left on his chest. The burn that accompanies Enjolras' words has become familiar to him, and there are days he still cannot believe it.

So when Enjolras pulls him aside after a meeting and whispers "I think I might be in love with you" into his ear, Grantaire feels his knees buckle. Enjolras' grip on his arm tightening may be all that keeps him upright when he continues, "I think I might have been for a long time," because Enjolras' passion goes undimmed. Grantaire recognizes that fervor. It's the energy with which he talks of revolution and Patria and his hopes for tomorrow--it's how _love_ looks and sounds on Enjolras and Grantaire _knows_ this.

"I've been in love with you for as long as I've been alive," he whispers back, and Enjolras is smiling more brightly than Grantaire has ever seen.

And then Enjolras  carefully--nervously--presses his lips to Grantaire's, and a heat that isn't words rises in Grantaire's cheeks.

They leave the Musain together. There's a flush in Enjolras' face as well, and Grantaire doesn't know why until Enjolras takes his hand, holding it tightly as they walk.

Honestly, Grantaire is surprised he didn't die right then and there.

 

Some days he still cannot believe how easily they fit together, but Grantaire knows it has always made sense. He's always felt most like himself at Enjolras' side. Enjolras is everything that he is not; being with him is being complete.

He's certainly comfortable with Enjolras hovering above him on the bed, hands on either side of his torso, shirt open to reveal the letters the cross his chest. There is script in red curling up his jaw in a caress, and Enjolras leans in close so Grantaire can feel his breath in his ear as he adds more.

 _My love_ stretches across his heart and he thinks he will burst; the place where _useless_ once marred his neck flushes warm instead, _wonderful_ washing the letters away. He wishes he could leave his words on Enjolras as well, wishes he could kiss _I love you_ onto his smooth skin. He can't, knows he can't, but he tries anyway.

He reaches a hand up to tangle itself in Enjolras' hair, drawing him down so their bodies are pressed together and pulling him close so their lips meet. Enjolras sits back up slowly, moving smoothly so Grantaire can follow him without breaking the kiss. Grantaire barely notices as Enjolras' hands sweep across his shoulders, pushing the shirt down and tugging the sleeves past his wrists. He's much more interested in the way those hands run from his stomach to his chest and up along the back of his neck to grip at his hair.

And he's certainly interested in the way that Enjolras breaks the kiss to _push_ him back down, because there is possessiveness in his eyes as he looks at Grantaire. His gaze wanders over Grantaire's skin, taking in the words that mark it. Grantaire can see his eyes moving quickly from left to right as they scan the letters, can see his brows draw together when he catches sight of what he knows must be the words of strangers--how many people have called him a drunkard? He's long since lost count--or Enjolras' own criticisms etched into his sides.

 Enjolras moves carefully around him, following the words as they arc across his shoulders to his back. Grantaire catches a quick intake of breath from behind him, and though he doesn't turn to face him, he can practically hear Enjolras' shoulders sag. A finger traces its way down his spine, passing through the letters he knows are back there: _worthless_ in red, spoken carelessly--always carelessly, Enjolras never _means_ to scar--but every word has consequences for Grantaire, regardless of intent.

Enjolras kisses him softly, kisses his mouth and his neck and his chest, trails his tongue down Grantaire's skin in the apology he cannot put into words. Grantaire understands and accepts it.

Grantaire takes him in his arms and turns them, pressing Enjolras back into the mattress. Just a few days ago he could have called Enjolras marble--an ideal, a perfect statue carved by the hand of a genius sculptor--but now he knows that is wrong. Marble would never be this soft beneath his body, this warm in his hands, this pliant at his touch.

He thinks it was because as much as he could love marble, marble would never love him.

He doesn't need that crutch anymore. Now, he has _Enjolras._

He'd sing if he knew how, thinks he'll paint how this feels later, but all of that can _wait._

 

Jehan invites him over for lunch the next day, but Grantaire can tell from his face that food is the last thing on his mind. He sets out a bottle of wine--a perfectly acceptable substitute by Grantaire's standards--and sits down across from him.

"So," Jehan says with all the joy of a girl encountering gossip, "how did it go with Enjolras?"

Grantaire beams. That is new for him, but it certainly feels right. "Well," he says. "It went well."

Jehan's grin grows devilish; it's the type of smile that Courfeyrac often wears.

"Tell me about it."


End file.
